In the Ashes of Jericho
by Vain
Summary: Post-Kyoto; His/Tsu and His/Oriya. When Hisoka makes some questionable choices, his life spins wildly out of control, dragging down everyone with him. Now he has to choose between what he wants and what he needs-or are they the same thing?
1. Prologue: Beggar's Candy

In the Ashes of Jericho

By: Vain

12.25.01

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I don't own Yami no Matsuei or Hisoka or Oriya—Yoko Matsushita does.  I simply enjoy covertly borrowing them, tormenting them for my own amusement, and then returning them and sneaking away again.  Hehehehehe.  Oryia's characterization is based on the **anime series, _not the manga, hence his perpetual relaxation ( ^_~ )  and this little work of art occurs about two months or so after the Kyoto Arch.  _**

This contains sexual themes, and YOAI (YnM—duh), so if you're a prude, go away.  And DO NOT flame me.  Flamers are idiots.  

Compliments, corrections, and constructive criticism are more than welcome, though.  ^.^

Read and review please!

**)-()-()-()-()-()-()-( )-()-()-()-()-()-()-( )-()-()-()-()-()-()-(**

**"To be awake is to be alive.**

**I have never met a man who was quite awake.**

**How could I have looked him in the face?"**

**~Henry David Thoreau**

**_Walden's Pond_; 1854******

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**Prologue: **

**Beggar's Candy**

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It was a whim.  A touch.  A brush.  A faint displacement of the air.  And then it was a breath.  A whisper.  An embrace that didn't invade his mind and leave him feeling scorched inside.  

Hisoka never questioned it.  He didn't feel as though he should question it or refuse it.  There was nothing wrong with it exactly and the other man was so self-effacing and utterly unimposing that it lent a surreal quality to the brief touches.  Touches that turned into lingering touches, to brief caresses across the surface of his mind, to embraces and a gentle questioning kiss one day during break.

"You're improving," he'd tell Hisoka.  "You're learning to center yourself."

Hisoka would nod, pick up his coat, and go his way.  He'd ignore the way his lips burned or the cool tingle on his skin.

The other man's mind did not sparkle like Tsuzuki's.  It was not the flood of vitality that was Watari.  Tatsumi's solidarity, Wakabe's fluttering light . . . his mind was like none of those.  But his mind was also unlike the suffocating dark void of Muraki's mind or the hard, heavy cold so many minds had radiated in his life.  It was . . . new.  It was pristine in its newness if by no other virtue and so very _different . . .  It had struck him that first time, through all the other's taunts, through his own fear, and pain, and terror for Tsuzuki and himself . . . it had been like a blade through all that: the sheer . . . wallflower-like quality of his mind._

It attracted Hisoka to him—made him cock his head to the side and simply stare at him for minutes on end.  It was not the sad, hungry kind of stares he gave Tsuzuki when he thought his partner was not looking, nor was it the cold scathing dismissal that he granted everyone else.  It was an open look of simple curiosity—curiosity the child shinigami bristled to call childish, but had an inescapable innocence about it.  Like a boy contemplating sticking his finger into the fragile smoothness of a candle flame.  

So he didn't try to stop it.  He didn't understand this new thing, these touches that didn't hurt or overwhelm him, this lack of malice, this "intimate" intimacy that had caught him unawares, and—while the emerald-eyed boy was many things—apathetic to his surrounding was not one of them.  This living mystery was something of great interest to him, something for which he had only the imaginary land of novels as his reference point, so he allowed the impulsiveness.  

The experience of pleasure of touch and the sensations such as the soft curve of a mouth pressed against his own without the messy, agonizing complications of emotion was a blessing.  If the rest of the world was a tsunami in his naked mind, then Oriya was low tide in the calmest of tropical islands.  Never mind the man's increasing aggressiveness.  Never mind the alarming ways Hisoka's body responded to that aggressiveness . . . He hungered for that calm in a way he hadn't known before fate brought them together and the simple indulgence of it was . . . bliss.

And there were no real issues to be resolved, no emotional attachments on his part, and no _history.  He didn't have to justify himself or bare his soul to Oriya.  If he wanted to speak, he did.  If he didn't, he did not.  And if Oriya wanted to whisper sweet nothings in his ear, that was fine by him.  Scanning the other man was not something boy was interested in, nor did he put one ounce of faith in Oriya's words or care for man's motives all that much.  If worse came to worse, he was quite capable of defending himself and it wasn't as though the other man could really __kill him or anything._

Days came and went and melted into weeks and Tsuzuki retuned to duty, ever under Hisoka's careful eyes.  Time passed and whatever discomfort he have felt about hiding the source of his growing fighting prowess receded to the back of his mind.  Cases were solved one at a time just as they had been before the fiery violence that had been Kyoto and Tsuzuki was back and getting better.  And Hisoka was making sure that he was quite capable of _keeping Tsuzuki better and far, far away from the man who had left them in ruins._

"Next time I'll protect you," he muttered as he watched his partner bounce around Tatsumi in search of the last cinnamon roll.  "Next time he won't be able to hurt either of us.  Ever again."

And in this fashion time passed.

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	2. All the Lonely People

In the Ashes of Jericho

By: Vain

12.25.01

)-()-()-()-()-()-()-( )-()-()-()-()-()-()-( )-()-()-()-()-()-()-(

I don't own Yami no Matsuei or Hisoka or Oriya—Yoko Matsushita does.  I simply enjoy covertly borrowing them, tormenting them for my own amusement, and then returning them and sneaking away again.  Hehehehehe.  Oryia's characterization is based on the **anime series, _not the manga, hence his perpetual relaxation ( ^_~ )  and this little work of art occurs about two months or so after the Kyoto Arch.  _**

This contains sexual themes, and YOAI (YnM—duh), so if you're a prude, go away.  And DO NOT flame me.  Flamers are idiots.  

Compliments, corrections, and constructive criticism are more than welcome, though.  ^.^

Read and review please!

**)-()-()-()-()-()-()-( )-()-()-()-()-()-()-( )-()-()-()-()-()-()-(**

**« Vous voyez?  Il y a des endroits où on ne me déteste pas. »**

**~Monsieur Hire******

**)-()-()-()-()-()-()-( )-()-()-()-()-()-()-(**

**Chapter One: **

**All the Lonely People**

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Oriya finished cleaning the last teacup and sighed.  "It was a good match, little one."

Hisoka nodded and stared blankly at the bare table in front of him.

The tall man cast him a gentle, knowing glance.  "You're doing it again."

"Doing it?"  The child shinigami frowned at him and rose to his feet from the tea table.  "I don't know what you're talking about."

The other man snorted good-naturedly.  It was a soft agreeable noise, free of mockery or condemnation.  Oriya was no longer capable of condemnation.  "You're upset.  You're wondering why you continue to come here even knowing that I was . . . _his_ friend.  You shouldn't come here if it causes you such stress, little one.  After all, Kyoto is that strange blonde's area.  What if it became known that you associated with me?  I'm sure your darling Tsuzuki-san would—"

The glare that Hisoka leveled at him bordered on being a physical attack.  "Tsuzuki knows nothing about this.  Nor will he ever."

It was not a threat; it was a statement.  

Oriya nodded.  He didn't feel the least bit threatened by the boy, despite the fact that he was well aware of what Hisoka was capable of when he became . . . truly annoyed.  The man shrugged.  "What right would I have to tell him, Hisoka?  I am nothing more than scenery.  You come to me and I merely welcome you.  When you wish to train, we train.  When you wish the sit in the garden, we sit in the garden.  You wish to talk, we talk.  I am at your disposal, Hisoka, and I hold no expectations.  I have nothing left in this world without Muraki, child.  Why should I begrudge you your life?"

Hisoka frowned slightly.  "You are a strange man, Oriya-san."

"As are you, Korusaki-kun."

The silence that ensued made Oriya sigh.  He wished that he could crack the wall around his young friend.  Hisoka walked over to one of the walls and began to study the swords.  Oriya watched him for a moment and felt something stir inside him.  

It was true: without Muraki, he had nothing left to tether him to the real world except his business.  And what was that, really?  It could run perfectly well without him.  He had seen to that.  Oh, he knew Muraki was alive.  Hisoka had told him as much the first day he came to him.  But so long as Muraki did not contact him, he was dead to Oriya.  They both knew that they were not bound to one another, despite whatever feelings or reservations either of them held.  For him, Muraki had died the moment he had given the boy that key card.  It had been Muraki's decision—his final desire and gambit.  And Oriya could not, would not, begrudge him of it.

But now there was Hisoka—the long dead child who had appeared in his garden one afternoon over ten weeks ago and asked if Oriya was willing to train him.  And then Hisoka had somehow filled up the hole Muraki had left—more than filled it.  He studied the boy's profile for a moment: large green eyes; soft, sweet-looking lips; tiny, bird-like bone structure; high cheekbones; silky blond-brown hair that was always falling into his face; porcelain skin; aristocratic nose—he was perfection frozen in time, a flower that would never fade, never wither, never age, and never die.

It was terribly sad in a way.

"Why do you come to me, Hisoka?"

A pair of emerald eyes turned to him and blinked in their cold, catlike fashion.  "You excel in the martial arts."

A slight smile touched Oriya's lips.  "Ah, yes . . . that must be it."

Hisoka's eyebrow twitched suspiciously.  "Besides," the boy continued as he turned back to the blades, "it's . . . peaceful here.  The feelings . . . they're not so close here.  You're mind is very focused and controlled.  You don't hurt me.  I remembered that from our first fight when I was trying to find a master to help me train.  Your mind was very clear."

Oriya looked away from him and wondered how he had come to be in such a place with such a creature for company.

Hisoka moved to stand next the window in the corner of the room and looked outside.  The moon was a pure white color—a flat ivory disk melted against a bruised night sky.  It was getting late.

Blue eyes followed him as he went, marveling at his silent, effortless grace.  He understood the martial arts easily, both in body and soul.  Perhaps that was why he hurt so much.  Oriya had long ago removed himself from the world; he couldn't imaging what a terrible burden it was to always balance rage with justice, never slipping, not even for an instant.  And there was such rage in Hisoka's soul . . . it was an inferno.  Oriya was very much afraid that it would engulf him someday.  He had seen it happen before to someone whom he held dear.

"You hated Muraki—still hate him."

The boy didn't turn around.  "Yes."

Oriya nodded and was silent for a moment.  Then: "He was my friend, you know."

Hisoka closed his eyes.  "He was a monster."  The emotion that trembled below his voice and his clenched hands belied the smooth peace on his face.

"Yes."  The taller man came to stand behind Hisoka and the boy tensed involuntarily.  "But he was still my friend."

The slender child shifted to move away from the window and Oriya's suffocating closeness, but an arm suddenly shot out and a long fingered, fine-boned hand pressed itself against the wall, trapping the shinigami between the wall and Oriya.  The youth whirled, his emerald eyes barely concealing his anxiety.  "What are you doing?"  Oriya had never been this . . . aggressive before.

The man's other hand reached out and pressed itself in the sharp bend of Hisoka's hip and drew them closer together.  "You fight well, little one.  I was impressed.  I thought you'd never find your fire."

"Oriya—"

"I am alone in the world now.  But I don't mind.  I told you before: I matter little in the events of the world.  I am merely a fly on the wall."

Hisoka pressed his hands against Oriya's chest.  "Let me go."

A delicate eyebrow lifted.  "Let you go?"  The hand pressed against the wall gently cupped Hisoka's chin and titled the boy's head up so they were looking into each other's eyes.  The hand at his hip began to gently work his shirt free from his pants.  Oriya pronounced each word as though he were tasting it and Hisoka trembled at the sound.  "Let.  You.  Go.  Hmmm . . ." He shook his head.  "No, child.  I don't think that I can do that.  You see you've caught me, my little one . . . my Hisoka . . . you've caught me utterly."

A low whimper escaped the child shinigami and Oriya gently pressed his lips against Hisoka's.  

"Not now—"

"Shh . . ." Slow hungry kisses were drawn down a pale cheek, earning yet another whimper from the boy.  "Shh . . . Hush, little love.  I'll take care of you.  I'll keep you safe."

Slender fingers began to undo the buttons of his shirt and Hisoka felt his knees go weak and he began to tremble.  _Why am I trembling . . .?_  He felt strange—lightheaded—and Oriya's gently urgent kisses were coaxing feelings out of his body that confused him.  His mind kept telling him to yell at Oriya.  To scream and blast him away and flee back to Meifu to where Tsuzuki was probably waiting for him and never come back to this place.  But his body . . . his body had other ideas entirely.  His arms fell to his side and he made a small needy noise of pleasure somewhere deep, deep in his throat as his shirt fluttered to the ground and Oriya's skilled lips and tongue discovered a hard nipple.

Two gentle arms wrapped around his waist and pulled him close.  Oriya's robe had fallen open in the front and when their bare chests touched it felt so good it nearly burned.  

"Oriya . . .!"

"Tell me to stop, little love."  Oriya's head rose up and he licked his lips slowly as though he were savoring the taste of the boy on his mouth.  He slowly kissed Hisoka again and this time the youth opened his mouth and allowed the man's plundering tongue in.  His hands rose up and convulsively clutched Oriya's arms as the other's tongue gently stroked the velvet insides of his mouth.

Oriya pulled back again.  He was panting.  "Tell me to stop, little love."  He nipped at the deliciously exposed neck before him.  "Tell me to stop.  Tell me that you don't want this, Hisoka, and I'll stop."

A hand slid up his shirt to explore his back and Hisoka moaned softly and arched his back.  Oriya stopped suddenly and jerked him close, his eyes hungry and seeking.

"Tell me to stop, Hisoka!  Tell me you don't want this!"

Green eye stared up into blue ones and Hisoka opened his mouth.

"Ah . . ."

Whatever he might have said died on his lips and the two of them stared deep into one another for a long moment.  Oriya's smiled.  "So be it then, my little love.  Remember, you had your chance, beloved."

Hisoka had no words to respond with as his lips were claimed in another feathery kiss.  The boy raised his arms to Oriya's shoulders and pushed the robe down, eager to feel the wondrous texture of the man's skin.  He clutched eagerly at the flesh, earning a light chuckle from his lover.

"Ah, ah!  Gently now, little love, gently.  You shinigami are quite strong."

An apology tried to escape Hisoka, but was muffled by Oriya's lips.  The boy relaxed his grip and his hands moved lower to the shallow dip of Oriya's back.  One of the other man's hands became entangled in Hisoka's hair and tilted his head back to deepen the kiss.  The other hand slid down below the waist of Hisoka's jeans to tease the soft curves of flesh underneath the rough denim.  Their bodies shifted and intertwined, limbs entangling and soft sounds of pleasure escaping them both at the same time and getting lost in one another's mouths.  Suddenly, somewhere between a twist and a thrust, their groins pressed together and the pressure of their mutual hardness was mind blowing and frightening at the same time.

The contact made Hisoka flinch.  His eyes flew open and he tore himself free of Oriya's embrace and stumbled back several steps, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.  Oriya took a step towards him, one arm outstretched.  

Hisoka flinched backwards again.  "No!" 

Oriya dropped his hand and turned away.  ". . . Forgive me, child."

The boy stared at him for a moment, struggling to control his breathing and stop shaking.  Oriya clenched a fist, the uncomfortable silence burrowing beneath his skin and eroding his impregnable control, and for a moment everything was horribly, endlessly, still.

The human licked his lips nervously.  "I just . . . It's . . . I'm sorry, Hisoka.  But you're so beautiful . . ."

Hisoka narrowed his eyes.  He stared at Oriya a moment longer before bending down to retrieve his shirt.  When he stood again, he jerked the thin material on with unnecessary force and scowled.  "Don't call me that."

Oriya flinched, something that he hadn't done in years.  "Ah—"

"Don't call me that," Hisoka repeated.  "Beautiful.  _He_ always said that."

A sudden pain clenched Oriya's heart and he turned away and walked towards the door—the same door that he and Muraki had stood at that night so many weeks ago.  That had been the last time he had seen Muraki.  It had also been the first time he had seen Hisoka—the lovely, lovely Hisoka.

"He always said that," the youth continued as he meticulously did up the buttons of his shirt.  " 'You're so beautiful,' he said to me that night.  'You're so beautiful.  A work of art.'  That's all he said that night."  He shivered.  "Don't ever call me that, Oriya."

When the man turned around, Hisoka was gone.  Oriya stared at the empty room for a long moment before he turned back to the glass.  "What a fool I am.  You'd laugh at me, my friend—letting a god of death get to me so . . . How you'd laugh, Muraki . . ."

An owl hooted and the wind blew and he imagined that he heard laughter there.  He stood in the doorway for a long time and wondered.

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	3. How Do I Love Thee?

In the Ashes of Jericho

By: Vain

12.25.01

)-()-()-()-()-()-()-( )-()-()-()-()-()-()-( )-()-()-()-()-()-()-(

I don't own Yami no Matsuei or Hisoka or Oriya—Yoko Matsushita does.  I simply enjoy covertly borrowing them, tormenting them for my own amusement, and then returning them and sneaking away again.  Hehehehehe.  Oryia's characterization is based on the **anime series, _not the manga, hence his perpetual relaxation ( ^_~ )  and this little work of art occurs about two months or so after the Kyoto Arch.  _**

This contains sexual themes, and YAOI (YnM—duh), so if you're a prude, go away.  And DO NOT flame me.  Flamers are idiots.  

Compliments, corrections, and constructive criticism are more than welcome, though.  ^.^

Read and review please!

**)-()-()-()-()-()-()-( )-()-()-()-()-()-()-( )-()-()-()-()-()-()-(**

**"Chaos was the meaninglessness of day-to-day life, **

**and**** if we were to die right now, **

**our**** lives would have been nothing but meaningless.**

**~Anne Rice**

The Vampire Lestat 

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**Chapter Two: **

**How Do I Love Thee?**

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_Tap, tap, tap, tap . . ._

Hisoka looked up from his book and arched an eyebrow.

_Tap, tap, tap, tap . . ._

He looked back down.

_Tap, tap, tap, tap . . ._

Hisoka looked up again.

_Tap, tap, tap, tap . . ._

The book slammed shut.

_Tap, tap, tap, tap . . ._

"Tsuzuki."

_Tap, tap, tap, tap . . ._

"Tsuzuki."

_Tap, tap, tap, tap . . ._

"Tsuzuki!"

_Tap, tap, tap, tap . . ._

"Damnit, Tsuzuki!!"  

_WHAM!!_

Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked over at the pair's desks while a confused Tsuzuki stared with wide violet eyes at his hand.  Just a second ago, he could have sworn that he had been drumming his fingers against the desk.  Now the back of his hand stung and Hisoka's hand was on top of his.  He ignored the warmth that went through him at being in contact with Hisoka and gave his partner his cutest grin.  "Heh . . ."

The boy glared at him sternly.  "Tsuzuki, you are driving me insane."

Tsuzuki slid his hand out from beneath Hisoka's and rubbed the back of it absently.  "I . . . Sorry, Hisoka."

The younger shinigami settled back in his seat and re-opened his book.  "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

Hisoka looked up from his book and scowled darkly.  "Now you're lying."  

When Tsuzuki stared at his desk instead of answering, Hisoka closed his book, set it down on his desk, settled back in his chair, and crossed his arms and legs.  "We solved the case.  You've earned a break.  You may as well relax—when do you think it's going to be slow like this again?  No doubt Tatsumi will find some nice tedious paperwork for us to do soon enough."  

He picked up his book again and the two sat in silence for a moment, then he looked up again.  Tsuzuki was staring down at his desk forlornly and Hisoka had the rather nagging feeling that things weren't quite right.

He gingerly reached out with his empathy and involuntarily clenched a fist as his mind was inundated with other people's emotions.  He grimaced and plowed forward anyway, determined to discover what had so upset his partner.  When he found the place where Tsuzuki's mind should have been, it felt like a wall of solid steel: hard, smooth, impregnable, and _cold_.  His retreated hastily and put up his shields.

"Ai . . . Tsuzuki . . . What's wrong?"

Tsuzuki looked up again and pasted the smile back on his face.  "Nothing," he repeated, raising his hands as though to ward off the words.  "It's nothing, Hisoka.  You know me—"

"Yes, I do, Tsuzuki.  Which is precisely why I know that you're lying to me.  And lying badly."

The other man looked down at his desk again and Hisoka scowled, a warning tone leaking into his voice.  _"Tsu~zu~ki . . ."_

He shied back.  "Soka-chan—"

"Don't call me that."

"Hisoka, I'm fine!"

" . . ."

"Honest."

When he only got a glare in response he smiled again and took an enormous bite out of the donut on his desk.

"BON!!!"

The glare deepened to a look Tsuzuki and Watari referred to as "The Glare" as Hisoka's green eyes flickered to the beaming blond scientist making his way across the room towards them.  Watari was so preoccupied with not spilling a large, bubbling Erlenmeyer flask of milky blue fluid that he ran into several people on his way to the two shinigami's desks. 

Hisoka eyed him and the suspicious flask warily.  "Watari."

The blond beamed at them both and chirped in a singsong voice.  "Good morning, Tsuzuki!!  Good Morning, Bon!!"  003 cooed in greeting on his shoulder.

Hisoka's caution was not put to rest.  His gaze latched onto the flask in his friend's hand.  "Can we help you, Watari?

He regretted the question the minute he said it.  Watari's honey-brown eyes flared with a pure glee that would have been borderline sadistic and more than a little bit insane in anyone else.  The scientist grinned and leaned down towards the boy.

"Yes, you can, Bon!"

Hisoka narrowed The Glare to focus on the flask.  "And what is _that?"_

"This?"  

The question sounded utterly innocent and anyone who knew Watari knew that that spelled trouble.  The blond waved the flask carelessly through the air as he gestured and the liquid within sloshed perilously close to the lip of the glass.  "This is just a little something I've been working on.  It's blueberry flavored—I think.  You like blueberries, don't you, Bon?  Tsuzuki said that you like blueberries."

The Glare was then turned upon Tsuzuki who responded with a rather dopey-looking grin.  "You said that you loved those muffins, Soka-chan!"

Hisoka was close to grinding his teeth.

Watari closed his eyes in an expression of ecstatic joy and shoved the flask in the boy's face.  "That's why I knew that you would love this!!"

"I don't _love_ anything."  Delicate hands rose and shoved the flask back towards Watari.  "Especially not if it came out of _your_ lab or _Tsuzuki's_ kitchen."

Tsuzuki pouted and Watari wilted.  Then the moment passed.

"But, Soka-chan—"

"But, Bon—"

"Don't call me that, baka.  And no, Watari, I will not swallow that vile concoction."

"You're such meaney!"

"It's not vile!"

"Always have been, and yes it is."

"But—"

The clock struck twelve and Hisoka stood up so quickly that he nearly knocked Watari down.  "Lunch break."  The boy grabbed his jean jacket and pulled it on, turning to Tsuzuki.  "Are you coming?"

Tsuzuki stood and shook his head.  "I have to talk to Tatsumi.  You go on ahead."

The emerald-eyed shinigami's lips tightened and his expression hardened.  "Tsuzuki—"

He waved the boy away and started off towards Tatsumi's tidy little office.  "I'll see you after break, okay?"

Hisoka glared ineffectually at his partner's back for a long moment before he turned away.  "Fine then."

003 cooed and Watari watched the two shinigami walk off in either direction.  "I have no idea," he muttered to the little owl on his shoulder.  

He followed Tsuzuki and was somehow not the least bit surprised to see the dark-haired man duck into the lounge.  Watari watched him coolly for a moment as he placed his hands on the counter and heaved a long, shuddering sigh.  Watari shook his head.  This was beginning to get ridiculous.

"Just tell him already."

Tsuzuki jumped and turned bright red.  "Oi!!  Watari, don't do that!"

The blond scientist entered the lounge and shut the door behind him, his face uncharacteristically stern.  "Really, Tsuzuki!  You're driving everyone up the wall, making Tatsumi-san crazy, and now you've just went and got Hisoka all worked up for blowing him off.  Things would be so much better if you would just swallow your pride and tell him."

The violet-eyed shinigami twisted uncomfortably to avoid Watari's accusing eyes, a pained expression on his face.  "But what if—"

Watari smiled and set the flask with the potion on the counter.  "Tsuzuki . . . Hisoka is your friend.  He cares about you.  He ran through a wall of fire for you . . . You have nothing to lose."

"I could lose him . . ." Tsuzuki dropped his head so that his hair hid his face.  "Watari . . . I've never kept a partner for so long and he's so . . . so . . ." He clenched his hands.  "If I lost Hisoka I think I'd just die, Watari."

A chill ran through the scientist as Tsuzuki looked up, his eyes looking blank and glassy.  "I couldn't lose him."

The door opened and Tatsumi walked in.  Both shinigami froze, startled as the Secretary of Hell pour himself a cup of Green Tea.  He poured in some honey, stirred it up, and then fixed Tsuzuki with a harsh look of reproach.  "Then go find him and talk to him."

The violet-eyed shinigami turned away.  "I . . . can't."

"You won't."  The light glared sharply off Tatsumi's glasses as he adjusted them on the delicate bridge of his nose.  His expression didn't change one iota.  "I've never known you to be such a coward, Tsuzuki-san."

For an instant Tsuzuki stiffened as though he'd been struck, but then his shoulders slumped once more.  "Yes you have, Tatsumi."

Tatsumi's eyes narrowed dangerously, but he said nothing as the slightly shorter man slunk out of the room.

Watari frowned slightly at his co-worker after Tsuzuki was gone.  "How tactful."

The dark-haired man grunted and walked over to a box of pastries that had miraculously survived Tsuzuki's morning raid.  "He's dragging his feet."

The scientist snorted.  "That's no reason to beat him over the head.  He already feels bad enough, all things considered."

"I want him to be happy, Watari."

"I want them _both to be happy," the blond replied with a hint of challenge in his voice, "but even I know better than to try to remove this particular fly from his forehead with a hatchet."_

If Tatsumi had been a lesser man, he would have flinched.  Instead he merely dumped out his tea and turned around with a scowl that normally sent any sane person running to the hills.

Fortunately, Watari did not exactly classify as a sane person.  Their eyes met for a brief moment before Tatsumi adjusted his glasses again, a nervous habit he'd never quite been able to break.  

"What are you suggesting, Watari-san?" the Secretary asked in a decidedly chilly voice.

Watari smiled sweetly.  "Nothing.  I'm just saying that Tsuzuki is still . . . delicate.  Even more so than usual.  Just one wrong move . . ." his voice trailed off suggestively and he adjusted his own glasses in a gesture that was almost mocking.  "Well," he said softly, "it could be very bad, you understand.  And even with his empathy, Bon is not one to notice or understand something like this unless it's forced down his throat first.  It's actually quite obvious if you consider his life experience.  As far as I can see, he's never known a kind word and his only experiences with intimacy were quite . . . _unpleasant."  His honey-colored eyes bored into Tatsumi for a moment.  "You __do understand, __don't you?"_

Tatsumi said nothing else and after a moment Watari turned and walked out of the room with an inaudible sigh of disgust.  And people wondered why he spent all his time in the lab . . .

003 hooted curiously on his shoulder and the scientist rolled his shoulders uncomfortably as he pushed open the door to his lab.  

"He's angry," he told the little owl in regards to Tatsumi.  "And frustrated."

He closed the door behind him and scowled slightly, the unusual expression marring his face for the briefest instant before vanishing.  003 flew off his shoulder to perch on what used to be a blender as the blond shinigami flowed over to a cluttered counter and began rooting around in the lower cabinets.  

"But you're right," he continued, his voice muffled by the cabinet.  "There's more going on than meets the eyes.  Even with Bon."  He found what he was looking for—a corroded D Cell battery—and stood.  When he turned back his companion, his golden eyes gleamed and his smile was almost feral.  "But until they get their acts together, this _does certainly promise to be an interesting ride, neh, 003?"_

003 hooted in agreement.

**)-()-()-()-()-()-()-( )-()-()-()-()-()-()-(**

Their swords leaned against a bench and they were both sitting down in the grass, Hisoka leaning back against Oriya's chest.  The older man's arms were wrapped around the boy in a gently protective embrace and Hisoka's slender arms were pressing Oriya's close to him. Occasionally his delicate fingers would move to trace small, intricate patterns on his lover.  The youth sighed and tilted his head back a bit to stare the blue sky, a foreign expression of peace soothing his fragile features.  The wind blew and sakura petals fluttered to the ground like pink snow.

"It's beautiful here," he murmured.

Oriya squeezed him tightly and nodded, his long hair shifting with the motion.  "Yes."  He looked down into his lover's face and smile benevolently.  "You pushed yourself hard today.  It everything alright?"

The boy snuggled back into the man's arms.  "I . . . it's Tsuzuki.  I'm worried about him.  He seems to be angry with me."

"Do you know why?"

"No."  Hisoka sighed in frustration and tilted his head back a bit more to feel the sun on his face.  "He won't let me in."

Oriya was silent for a moment.  "Do you love Tsuzuki-san?"

The question caught Hisoka off guard and he stiffened.  "Love?  What do you mean 'love?' "

Oriya shrugged slightly and loosened his grip so that Hisoka was free to escape if he wanted to.  "Love.  How do you feel about him?  Do you like to touch him?  Hold him?  Do you make excuses to be near him?  Do you forgive him things that you would never for—"

"Do you love Muraki?"

Oriya sighed.  "I don't know.  Things were never like that between us . . . we didn't _talk_ so much."

Hisoka snuggled closer to the older man, his eyes locked on the green grass.  "But you were lovers, right?"

He didn't need to look up to know that Oriya was nodding his head.  "Yes.  We were lovers."

"And you would accept him again if he returned to you?"

"Yes.  I would.  Does that mean that I love him, though?  I know him.  I understand him.  I admire him . . . But do I love him?  I don't know.  I did love him, but I don't know if it's how you mean.  I would have died for him, though, and done so happily.  I will always accept Kazutaka.  Nothing can change that.  Would you accept Tsuzuki-san if he walked in here and told you he loved at this very moment?"

Hisoka closed his eyes.  "Tsuzuki would never do that."

A sigh left Oriya's lips and he pulled the boy closer.  "But you would accept him, neh?  This is our fate, I think.  Our penance."

A shiver wracked Hisoka's small frame then and Oriya bent down and gently kissed the boy's neck, suckling on the flesh until a small bruise blossomed.  A soft moan slipped past Hisoka's lips and he closed his eyes, tipping his head back for better access and lifting one hand to grip Oriya's hair.  The man obligingly nipped at the bruise and lightly ran his tongue over the abused skin.

Hisoka inhaled shakily.  "You're trying—ah!—to distract me."

"Mmmm."  Oriya lifted his head up and smiled faintly.  "Is it working?"

He received a half-hearted glare in response.  "You're nothing but a con artist."

Both his hands slid down to the space between Hisoka's legs and one hand began to stroke the inside of his thigh as the other one started to rhythmically squeeze the youth's growing hardness through his jeans.  He smiled in gratification when his ministrations elicited as small whimper of need and his lover lifted his hips slightly, seeking to increase the contact.  "So is it working?"

"Mmm . . . Yesss . . ."

Oriya kissed him then, slowly shifting their positions until Hisoka was lying on his back on the grass and he was on top.  The youth's hair splayed around him and the sunlight turned it golden, giving off a halo affect.  He looked pristine—pure and innocent and untouched—more like a creature of myth than something real, solid, and very much alive beneath him.  The youth stared up and his emerald eyes seemed to blaze with an inner fire that made Oriya want him all the more.

His flower bud lips parted.  "What?"  The word was a breath and Oriya felt something in him melt at the sound.  Hisoka blinked and blushed a lovely scarlet.  "Is something wrong, Oriya?"

"You're a virgin."

Hisoka blushed at the wonderment in the other's voice, awkward and flustered.  "Y—Nuh—I . . . He—"

"_He," Oriya interrupted gently, "did what he did without your consent, little love.  He took.  You never gave him anything."  He leaned down and whispered the words with a gentle accent as though the effort could make Hisoka understand.  "_He **took**_, little love, and you . . . You are pure and clean and so lovely . . ."_

Hisoka turned his head to the side so that he didn't have to look into Oriya's eyes.  ". . . How could you care for him so much?"

"I don't know.  It's who I am."  Oriya tilted his head to the side.  "He was a monster: yes.  But I loved him nonetheless.  I can love a monster."  He leaned down.  "Just as I can love death.  Just as I can love you, little god of death."  Hisoka's eyes widened and Oriya smiled as he stared into the shocked boy's face.  "Shhhh . . . Don't say anything.  I look at you, my little love, . . . I look at you and I see my own mortality.  I look at you . . ."

Hisoka wrapped his arms around Oriya and leaned up, burying his head in the slope of Oriya's neck.  "Shut up, Oriya.  Just . . . You're such a . . ."

Oriya smiled again and held him close.  

A sudden beep made them both jump.  Hisoka raised a wrist and frowned at his watch.

"Oi!!  Let me up.  Lunch break is over and I have to get back."

The older man reluctantly crawled off him and stood, helping the other to rise to his feet.  

"You shouldn't have skipped lunch," he chided.

Hisoka shrugged.  "I never really eat anyway.  Besides, I can just grab something at the office."

The brunette turned and bent down to collect the swords.  "Be sure you practice you lunge stance.  And watch your left side—you left it wide open."  

"I will.  Goodbye, Oriya."

"When will—" He turned around and the words died on his lips.  Hisoka was gone.

**)-()-()-()-()-()-()-( )-()-()-()-()-()-()-( )-()-()-()-()-()-()-(**


End file.
